


Spite

by PengyChan



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: “You don’t want me,” Ernesto said, and Imelda scoffed.“No, of course I don’t want you. But spite is a good reason as any."Taking his best friend’s life had been so, so easy. Now it seemed that taking his beloved wife wouldn’t be any more difficult.





	Spite

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking “what other dick move can Ernesto pull on Héctor after killing him?”, and this happened. I’d like to offer a general apology to the universe for this, because Héctor Did Not Deserve This, Imelda Did Not Deserve This, and Ernesto– no, wait. He did deserve this.

Ernesto’s return to Santa Cecilia was nothing like he’d imagined it would be when he’d left.

He’d imagined himself and Héctor returning together after becoming famous in all of Mexico; he’d imagined celebrations, a hero’s welcome for both of them. Music, dancing, fireworks, drinks for everybody; Héctor would have become drunk almost right away, the lightweight, and Ernesto would have probably followed suit not too long afterwards. He usually did.

But things had gone differently. He had become famous all right, but Héctor had to go for that to happen, so when he returned he was alone – and taking great care not to be recognized. He had been the only one to get off the train at that station, with nothing but his guitar case; he was not planning to stay for long, and perhaps he wouldn’t even have that when he left again. There were few people out in the late morning heat, and he took secondary roads through the town, keeping his hat down to hide his face.

There were a few matters he needed to take care of as discreetly as possible before he made his presence in town known. He’d tried to do so by letter, but he had received no reply, and he supposed the only way to go about it now was to settle things in person.

The home she’d shared with Héctor was larger than it had been before; more rooms had been added, as well as a sign advertising a shoemaking business. It looked like she hadn’t been idly waiting around for Héctor to return and had found another way to support herself and her family; knowing her, it was hardly surprising.

He approached the front door – that green door he and Héctor had painted together, something that had involved a couple of accidents, more than a few splashes of paint and even a hearty laugh from Imelda the Ice Queen herself. It had taken forever to get all that green out of his hair. Ernesto smiled at the memory, or he thought he had; in truth, all that showed on his face was a grimace. The paint was peeling, he noticed distantly, bleached by the sun. Everything bleached in that stupid town; Ernesto used to think that he would too, like an old photograph, if he didn’t leave as soon as he could. The sun would mark his face like it had marked his father’s and then the years would, menial task after menial task, until one day he’d look in the mirror to realize he’d become an old man and accomplished nothing.

_Enough. You made it out. Reminiscing is not what you’re here for._

Ernesto de la Cruz, who would never get to become an old man at all, forced himself to ignore the memories and knocked. He waited, but heard nothing; he was about to knock again when a voice reached his ears, muffled by the wooden door.

“Coming!”

There were steps inside, then the door opened and there was Imelda – just as he remembered her, or almost. There was something harsher in her eyes, in the way she held her chin up, and her gaze darkened when she saw him. Ernesto smiled.

“Hello, Imelda. It’s been a whi--” he began, only to trail off when the door was slammed shut in his face. Now _that_ was starting out rather well, but then again it hadn’t been entirely unexpected.

With a sigh, Ernesto knocked again. “Imelda,” he called out. “I was hoping to find Héctor--”

The door opened so abruptly than he almost stumbled back. Imelda was staring at him with open hostility now, eyes ablaze. “He is not here,” she spat. “None of us has seen him since you took him away.”

“You’re making it sound like I dragged him off kicking and screaming,” Ernesto pointed out. “I did no such thing. He chose to come with me. He wanted to--”

“You talked him into it.”

“He could have said no.”

“He could _never_ say no to you.”

But he did, Ernesto thought, and at the worst possible time. Except that of course he couldn’t say that. “It was his choice, Imelda, as was parting ways with me. I don’t know where he went. You can’t blame me for it.”

If her expression was anything to go by, she could and she did, but at least she paused long enough for Ernesto to speak again.

“I wrote a couple of times--”

“I know.”

“So you received the letters?”

“Yes. I burned them.”

Oh, of course she would. Holding back a sigh, Ernesto lifted his hands. “As I said, I was hoping to find Héctor here. I am sorry to know he has not returned. There are a few things I believe we should discuss. May I come in?”

For a moment, he was certain that Imelda would slam the door on his face again and he braced himself for the bang, but she did not. She stared at him for a few moments, her lips pressed together in a tight line, and finally stepped aside.

“You must be gone before Coco and my brothers return home,” she said. “I won’t have my daughter seeing you and start asking about her father. I want her to forget all about him,” she added, closing the door after he’d stepped in. “About both of you.”

“Fair enough.”

They sat in the living room, and Imelda went as far as pouring a drink for both of them; not that she bothered to ask him what he wanted, but then again it hardly mattered. He wasn’t there to drink to old times: he was there to nip in the bud what could become a potential headache.

Now that he was becoming more and more famous across Mexico, she was bound to hear at least some of his songs at the radio, and of course she would recognize them as her husband’s work. Ernesto had no intention to reveal as much to the wider public, because of course he didn’t want to draw any attention on Héctor and the fact he’d gone missing, but she could do it, and he’d rather settle the matter right away.

“… And he left me his songbook and the guitar, saying that he needed a fresh start,” he finished, after giving her the same tale as in his letters – that artistic differences had led to them splitting up, and that Héctor had left with only the clothes on his back without telling him where he was heading. “I know the guitar was a gift from you,” he added, patting the guitar case. “I figured you might like to have it, as well as some of the revenue from--”

“You figured it wrong,” Imelda cut him off. She looked at the guitar case like it was something a dog had thrown up on her floor. “I want nothing of his.”

Well, it looked like he could keep the guitar, then. He didn’t mind: it was a good one. “Still, he did write… _some_ of my songs. As he can’t be found, you at least should have some form of--”

“I have no need for your money,” Imelda spat, cutting him off again. She was sitting straight and rigid, like a general poised for battle. “And no need for music. You can keep it all - his guitar and his songs, for all they’re worth. This family needs nothing of his to thrive. He’s dead to us,” she added, and for one terrifying moment Ernesto had to fight back a somewhat hysterical laugh that _almost_ made it to his mouth. He managed to keep his expression from changing, but the laugh stayed there, stuck painfully in his throat.

_It seems I killed you in more ways than I meant to, old friend._

“Yes, I understand perfectly,” he said instead, his voice quiet, and stood. It seemed there was nothing left for him to do there: he’d come to offer money so that she wouldn’t cause him trouble should she recognize his songs as Héctor’s, and it had turned out it wasn’t even needed. She wanted to forget all about her husband and his music, and it worked just fine for him.

There was nothing left to do but leave that spit of a town, possibly for good; he should probably do it now, before the child showed up. He didn’t really want to see her. Would she recognize him? She used to call him ‘Tío Ernesto’, once, and he’d even found it endearing, but now he’d rather have nothing to do with her if he could avoid it. There was too much of Héctor in her; there was too much of Héctor in that whole damn town and he was sick of it.

“I can see I have overstayed my welcome,” he added, and nodded at Imelda before turning to the door - except that she stood the next moment, her hand grabbing his arm.

“Wait,” she ordered, her voice as steely as her grip, and Ernesto froze. For one absurd moment he was sure that she knew the truth, that she must have somehow read it on his face. He turned to glance back at her, feeling as though his heart, as well as time itself, had stopped as they stared at each other in silence. Then somewhere in the distance a bell rang midday and the illusion was broken. Ernesto recoiled and she spoke again, letting go of his arm and stepping closer.

“No one will be home for a couple more hours,” she said matter-of-factly, and Ernesto blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting her to say, but that was not it.

“... And?” he asked, causing her to raise an eyebrow.

“You are just as dense as I remembered,” she remarked, tilting back her head, and that was when realization hit him. It was entirely unexpected and so absurd that, for a few moments, he could only stare at her with his mouth hanging open. He had to work his jaw before he could speak, and he did so with a nervous laugh.

“Certainly you don’t mean--”

“I do,” she cut him off, causing the laugh to die on his lips. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. What on _earth_ was that about?

“You don’t want me,” Ernesto said, and Imelda scoffed.

“No, of course I don’t _want_ you. But spite is a good reason as any,” she retorted, and grasped the collar of his shirt. Her eyes were wide open and hard as steel. He stared down at her and wondered, not for the first time, how painfully she’d kill him if she knew the truth.

_Ah, it would have been so much better if you and Héctor never met. If only._

“Am I to be your cheap revenge, then?” he asked, but of course he was. What better revenge could there be for an abandoned wife than sleeping with the best friend of the runaway husband?

Imelda gave a wry smile. “I have no reason to be true to somebody who deserted me and his own flesh and blood. Do _you_ think I should? He left you on your own, too.”

Ernesto almost laughed at the notion. She was asking him of all people - he, who had murdered his best friend out of desperation and, yes, out of sheer spite. Because he had no right to abandon him like that, no right to keep his songs for himself because he was _homesick._ He had tried to leave even though he knew that Ernesto had sacrificed everything - all the meager savings he had, his family ties - to chase that dream, to seize his moment.

Héctor had his perfect wife and perfect child to go back to; Ernesto would find nothing but humiliation if he returned without first amounting to _something,_ and he couldn’t do that on his own. He needed Héctor, and Héctor had known it. Héctor had held Ernesto’s life and dreams in his hands, and had decided seeing his wife and brat was more important - that he couldn’t be bothered to wait even one more month, or a week.

And so he had died, because Ernesto couldn’t allow it; because he had worked too hard to let it all crumble to dust, because he was angry and hurt and desperate, and taking his best friend’s life had been so, so easy. Now it seemed that taking his beloved wife wouldn’t be any more difficult.

 _Hate me if you want,_ he had said, and maybe Ernesto had hated him in that moment, but it had since dulled to mere resentment and a wistful wish it had never come to that.

_Look what you made me do. You said I was your brother, but I was not really family, was I? Was she worth turning your back to me? May as well find out, mi hermano._

“No,” he finally said, and leaned towards her. “There is a lot to be said for spite and cheap revenge.”

She scoffed, and wasted no more words: she tugged sharply at his shirt, and her mouth was on his the next moment. It was fierce and angry and even painful, with her teeth sinking on in lower lip, and he found he liked that. He wrapped his arms around her waist and her hands were on his back. He could feel her nails through the fabric of his shirt and knew he may need to tend to more than a few scratches once that was over with,  but he supposed he’d live.

 _Unlike Héctor,_ his mind whispered, and he only realized he’d laughed when Imelda pulled back to look at him, markedly unimpressed, an eyebrow raised. Ernesto smiled down at her apologetically. He wanted to laugh some more, he wanted to scream, he wanted to confess what he’d done just to see the look on her face, to tell her that it had been her fault for making him want to abandon their-  
_his  
_ -dream.

_This was your dream. You’ll manage._

_Look what you made me do._

In the end, however, he did none of those things. His own voice, which reached him as though from a mile away, was impossibly calm when he spoke.

“My apologies. Perhaps we should take this to the bedroom? Just in case. I believe neither of us would want someone to walk into this.”

“Hmph. Fair enough.”

The bedroom was upstairs, and the walk to it was silent. Ernesto tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to his mind. He had known Imelda for a long time - not as long as he’d known Héctor, but still for the best part of a decade - and now it was like walking side by side with a stranger. They had been friends once, he supposed; not as close as he and Héctor had been and often trading barbs - though she was generally the one to start - but they’d been in friendly terms. Now, however, to her he was the one who had convinced her husband to leave in the first place.

If she knew he was also the reason why he had never come back, of course, he wouldn’t be her tool for revenge against the one she believed had deserted her; if anything, he might just become a murder victim himself. But she would not know. Héctor was dead and gone, and _no one_ would ever know.

Still, when she opened the bedroom door and stepped in - when he saw the bed Héctor used to sleep in with her - he paused, and a cold chill ran up his spine.

_He wanted to return to this. Does his ghost still sleep here?_

“Imelda--” he began, only to be cut off.

“Are you backing down?” she asked, and that was it. If there was one thing Ernesto de la Cruz had _never_ done, it was backing down.

“No,” he heard himself saying, stepping in, and she nodded sharply.

“Good. Whatever else you may think you have to say, I don’t want to hear it,” she added, and shut the door behind them. The sound of the key turning into the lock held a staggering sense of finality, not unlike the moment he’d watched Héctor drinking the poison, knowing that from that moment on there could be no turning back.

Then Imelda walked up to him, and their mouths were joined again and he found himself on his back on the mattress. Her fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, his hands reached beneath her dress, and he knew he didn’t _want_ to turn back. And if Héctor was there, somehow, then he may as well enjoy the show.

 _Look what you made me do,_ Ernesto thought again, and it was his last coherent thought for a while.

* * *

When Ernesto found himself able to think again, his first distinct thought was that he hadn’t _meant_ to doze off afterwards. The second, as he blinked up at the ceiling, was that the room really needed a hand of paint. And the third, when he shifted to sit up, was that his shoulders, arms and back stung quite a bit. Scratches, as he’d imagined would happen, but there was also an uncomfortable soreness in his back that suggested he had at least pulled a muscle.

Well. She _was_ angry all right.

Ernesto sat up with a grimace, and paused when his gaze fell on Imelda. She was resting on her side, giving him her back, the covers up to her waist and hair loose on the pillow. Her side rose and fell slowly with each breath, and he found himself reaching to place a hand on the bare skin of her upper arm. He hadn’t meant to startle her or wake her up, but she did shift, and called out.

“Héctor?” she mumbled, and something in the pit of Ernesto’s stomach clenched.

 _If only he’d listened to me he’d be here now,_ he wanted to say, but of course he could never voice that thought. And then he didn’t get to say anything at all, because Imelda turned her head, her gaze fell on his face, and all traces of sleep faded into confusion for a split second before leaving behind cold awareness.

“Get that hand off me if you wish to keep it,” she told him, her voice icy as her skin was warm, and he immediately pulled his hand back.

“Sorry. I just… never mind.” Ernesto cleared his throat and pulled himself in a sitting position, giving her his back. He heard her getting up, the quiet rustling sound of a dress being picked up from the floor and put on quickly. He busied himself picking up his own clothes and wearing them, ignoring the sting when the cotton of his shirt brushed on the scratches she had left on him. There would be time to tend to those later. When he buttoned up his shirt and turned Imelda was tying her hair back again, the very picture of composure. Their gazes met through the mirror, and she paused.

“This never happened,” she told him without turning, and Ernesto nodded.

“Of course not,” he said. In another situation he may have quipped that he had no idea what she was talking about since nothing at all had happened, but not now. He’d never felt less inclined to joke in his entire life. “Did it give you any satisfaction at all?” he asked instead, and he honestly couldn’t tell whether he was asking her or himself.

Imelda paused, and seemed to consider the question before shrugging. “Get out of here. Take that guitar with you.”

He did, and paused at the door, turning to glance back at her over his shoulder. She was still tying her hair, as though he wasn’t even there. “I wish you the best of luck,” he finally said.

“I have no use for luck,” she remarked, and sighed. “But thanks, I suppose. Now go.”

He did, walking downstairs as quickly as he could without running; his lungs seemed to be barely working, unable to draw in enough air, and suddenly he felt like he was suffocating. He paused just enough to pick up the guitar case from the floor and put it on his back and then he was out, pulling the hat down to hide his face as he walked down the street.

It was a familiar one, like all of the damn streets in that godforsaken town. That one led to the market, where he and Héctor would try to pilfer fruit off the stalls when no one was looking. That other street led all the way to the stream; they spent a lot of time there as children. And then the square, where they would play from time to time, and the cantina where they would spend so many evenings, where Imelda used to work, where Héctor had made a fool out of himself so many times to impress her - all while Ernesto laughed and told him to keep trying, amigo, never give up, just sing her one more song, what’s the harm in one more song?

_If I’d know how it would have turned out, I’d have told you to forget about her._

Memories surged in his mind, and Ernesto felt even more trapped than he had inside the Rivera home with the vengeful wife of a dead man, the unknowing widow. He picked up his pace, heading to the train station in the empty streets of the early afternoon, but yet again his eyes fell on places he recognized. There was the road that led to his old home, and hell knew if his parents still lived in it or lived at all. Héctor would sometimes go under his window and catch his attention by throwing stones at it if he’d found something Ernesto absolutely had to see, or had an idea for a song he absolutely needed to share right away.

_But then you decided you didn’t want to share anymore. Not with me. And look what you made me do, my friend, my brother - what you made me do what you made me do what you made me--_

“Tío Felipe! Can we buy flowers for mamá?”

_Look Coco, this is your Tío Ernesto! Ah isn’t she beautiful?_

_Tío Ernesto! Pick me up! Pick me up!_

Ernesto ducked behind the corner as soon as he heard that voice, heart hammering in his throat. He didn’t know if Coco would even recognize him if she saw him – he hoped she would not, it had been a couple of years and she had been so little when he’d left – but for a moment he was irrationally certain that if their gazes met she would know everything, and tell everybody what he had done. Plus, Imelda’s brothers would certainly recognize him and he didn’t want that to happen. They would certainly ask about Héctor and Ernesto didn’t want to talk about him ever again.

_Dead and gone. Let him stay gone._

“Ah, can’t see why not! We’ll pick up some on our way back...”

The voices, those of two young men and a little girl, passed him by. Ernesto only dared look at their retreating backs for a moment – there she was, riding on the shoulders of one of the twins, hell knew which one – before he turned away and ran to the train station, or tried to. Something in his stomach clenched, bile rose in his throat, and he faltered after only a few steps. He leaned against the wall of a house to steady himself and retched on the ground, eyes watering, cold sweat on his brow. He had nothing to throw up aside from the little he’d drank in what had been Héctor’s home.

 _Maybe Imelda poisoned me in turn,_ he thought while wiping his mouth, and the thought was so absurd he laughed hoarsely, bent forward with his hands on his knees. He was aware, vaguely, of an old woman looking at him from a window with some concern – this madman laughing himself into near hysteria in the street, standing over a puddle of his own bile.

“Señor? Are you well?” she was asking, her voice wary.

 _Must have been a chorizo,_ he almost yelled, but instead he laughed again before he staggered – then walked, then ran – back towards the train station, away from Santa Cecilia, back to the life he’d made for himself at the highest of prices.

* * *

When he’d left Santa Cecilia for the first time, Ernesto de la Cruz been with his best friend, telling everybody in the way that when they’d return, they would be famous. When he left it for the second time, he did so alone and like a thief - never to return alive.

And when his body - what was left of it - was brought back there, to be buried in a mausoleum built especially for him, Imelda came out in the street to see the coffin passing by. She stared in silence, her expression unreadable, before turning to her brothers.

“At least one of them came back,” she said, and then returned to work - keeping the windows shut, so that she wouldn’t have to hear any of the music coming from the cemetery.


End file.
